


Behind The Mask

by scarletmanuka



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Secrets, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9377783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletmanuka/pseuds/scarletmanuka
Summary: Mycroft has a shameful secret and does his best to keep it from Sherlock.





	

The crunch of gravel behind him signalled the car was leaving, and Mycroft looked up at the house, tightness in his chest. He took a deep breath, and steadied his nerves. He could do this. He had too. He was brimming over with shame as it was - there was no use causing his family to feel the same way. He knew he would have no problem keeping it from his parents - he’d been able to keep them in the dark about anything and everything since he was five years old. It was Sherlock he was worried about. He simply  _ must _ keep his shameful secret from his brother.

They had always been close, closer than normal siblings from what he could tell. They rarely socialised with other children but when they did, they were always amazed that the others couldn’t tell what their siblings were thinking just from a glance. Even their twin cousins couldn’t communicate silently like Mycroft and Sherlock could. Along with limited intelligence and a need to excitedly discuss whatever fancy was passing in popular culture, other children couldn’t keep either Holmes boy interested. So they withdrew into their own little cocoon, discussing science journals, and playing deductions. They were labeled freaks by their peers but they thought them just as freakish and so they paid the taunts no heed and concentrated solely on each other. 

They remained close even when Mycroft went off to university two years earlier than most teenagers. Sherlock was initially upset, but when his big brother phoned every night and wrote long letters with puzzles and clues to solve, he realised that not even distance could keep them apart. 

They knew each other better than anyone else and could read everything that had happened in a single glance. The minute Mycroft crossed the threshold for Christmas break in his third year of uni, they looked at each other, eyes widening, and as soon as he had finished hugging his parents, they scurried off to his bedroom so they could discuss what they’d read on the other.

“Smoking, Lockie, really? You’re thirteen!”

The lanky teen had crossed his arms and huffed. “And? It’s not like I smoke a pack a day.”

“Still, it’s a nasty habit.”

“One that  _ you _ have been indulging in for years now.”

“One that I didn’t  _ start _ until I was sixteen.”

His brother rolled his eyes. “I’ve always been quicker at picking things up than you, My.”

“Only bad habits, brother mine. I’m still the smart one.”

His lip twitched. “I know.” The concession always seemed to sting a little. His eyes brightened and he crossed the room and sat on the bed as Mycroft began to unpack. “I’m not the only one to notice that, am I. MI6 recruited you.” It wasn’t a question.

Mycroft nodded once. “I can’t discuss it, even with you, so please don’t ask me anything about it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. “As if I’d need to ask, My. As long as you’re in the same room with me I can read all I need to know.”

He couldn’t help a small smile, but it faded as he met his brother’s eyes. “So tell me, how long has the boy from the end of the road been bullying you?”

He pulled himself from his memories and sighed, pushing his shoulders back as he mentally prepared himself to throw up a barrier between himself and his brother. It felt unnatural, almost a betrayal, but he had no choice. He couldn’t risk Sherlock finding out. He couldn’t risk hurting the person he loved most in this world. Feeling as ready as he would ever be, he stilled his face into a mask of calm and walked stiffly up the path to the front door.

His family heard the door open and by the time he had closed it and put his bag down the three of them had appeared in the hall. 

“Myc!” Mummy cried, and took hold of either side of his face so she could kiss him. “It’s so good to see you!”

His father ruffled his hair, a twinkle in his eyes at the grimace his eldest made at the gesture, the sole reason he continued to do it even after all these years. “Merry Christmas, Mycroft. It’s good to have you home.”

He smiled at his parents, a genuine one as it hit him just how good it felt to  _ be _ home. The smells, the sounds, the knowledge that he was loved - combined it was enough to begin to ease the knot of tension between his shoulders that he’d carried for so long he hardly knew it was there anymore.

“Brother,” a deep voice drawled from behind his mother. Mycroft looked up and found himself looking up even more. The fifteen year old had shot up since he’d last seen him and was now the same height as him. He was still thin and lanky but the boyishness was gone from his face, and instead there was a clear picture of the man he’d started to become. 

“Sherlock,” he greeted him evenly, allowing the barriers to lock into place.

A momentary look of confusion flickered across his brother’s face, followed by hurt, and then determination. “Let me get your bag,” he said. “We have  _ so _ much to catch up on.” 

Mycroft groaned internally, knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t stop until he’d discovered the truth behind his older brother’s walls. He resigned himself to being interrogated and studied for every second of his visit, but was determined to keep his shameful secret from him at all costs.

They headed for the stairs and Sherlock placed a hand on the small of his back. Mycroft couldn’t help but flinch from his touch, and he saw the information catalogued away in his brother’s mind. He hurried up the stairs, putting distance between them and keeping his eyes averted. 

They reached his bedroom and he took his bag from Sherlock, glancing away after the briefest locking of their gazes. His brother’s eyes were questing, reading every miniscule flicker of expression. He made sure his mask was firmly in place as he started to unpack.

Sherlock flopped down onto the bed, a sprawl of long legs and lean muscles. “So tell me, brother mine, how goes your secret government work?”

Mycroft threw him a withering glance. “You know perfectly well that I occupy a  _ minor position in the government.  _ It would do you well to remember that, especially when we’re around others.”

“ _ Boring! _ ”

“Nonetheless, a necessity. It’s bad enough that you deduced the true nature of my work, Sherlock. If my employers were to discover that fact, it would not bode well for either of us.”

“Pfft! I told you, I know how to keep a secret, My.” He shot a pointed look at his older brother, and for once, Mycroft wasn’t sure how to interpret it. “But since I know already, what’s the harm in you telling me all the juicy details?”

“Do I really need to explain?”

“Blah, blah, plausible deniability, blah blah, national security. I don’t  _ care  _ about all of that, it’s dull. We used to share everything, My. Talk about everything. And now it feels like you won’t tell me anything.” There was a pout on his delicate lips. “When did you stop needing me? You’re keeping something from me and I don’t like it.”

He sighed and came to sit on the bed next to him, wondering how much he could say without giving away his secret. His hand hovered over one long leg for a moment and then he allowed the briefest of touches to Sherlock’s knee. “I’ll never stop needing you, Lockie. But you must understand that when it comes to my work, I simply  _ can’t  _ talk about it. It’s nothing personal.”

Sherlock continued to sulk, but finally nodded in acquiescence. Mycroft was under no illusions that his brother would continue to observe him closely however, and was determined to keep his mask in place.

They headed down to the drawing room for afternoon tea, and then accompanied their father out for a survey of the stables. His prediction proved correct and Sherlock stuck to him like a shadow, his eyes constantly on him, probing for any crack in his defences. He managed to keep his sibling at bay for the most part, only failing at the casual touch to the shoulder or back which caused him to flinch away each time. His reactions didn’t escape Sherlock’s notice and he became more tactile than usual, a thoughtful expression on his face each time he invaded his brother’s personal space. It was almost a relief when they were called to dinner and he had a metre of solid oak between them but it didn’t stop the stormy nebula of Sherlock’s eyes from locking onto his.

In an effort to distract him, he began to question Sherlock about school. “Mummy tells me you’re doing well. Your grades are almost perfect. It’s good to hear that you’re applying yourself.”

There was a bored shrug of his shoulders. “There’s no point in being smarter than them all if I can’t prove it. I’ll delete all the useless information at the end of the term once I don’t need it anymore.”

“And what if it turns out that you  _ do _ need it later down the track?”

“Then I’ll just re-learn it,” he said with a sniff of disdain. 

“That doesn’t seem like a good use of your time. If you retained the information it would save time later.”

“The chances of me requiring any of the useless tripe they feed us during lessons is miniscule. I’ll take my chances.”

“And have you made any friends?” He knew that his brother didn’t socialise, and never mentioned anyone he even particularly liked during their phone calls. He knew his parents would jump into the conversation though which would hopefully distract Sherlock from his observations of Mycroft, plus it would annoy his younger brother to no end. One had to take small victories where one could.

His trip through puberty had perfected his scowl, and Sherlock demonstrated it at length. “I prefer not to waste my time exchanging meaningless drivel with the plebeians.”

“Sherlock! That’s no way to speak about your classmates,” Mummy admonished him. 

“It is the truth, Mummy. They have half a brain cell between the entire lot of them.”

“With that attitude, it’s no wonder they don’t wish to include you,” Daddy chided. “If you want people to give you the time of day, you need to prove yourself.”

“Well it’s a good thing I  _ don’t _ want them to bother me.” 

“That’s setting yourself up for a lonesome existence.”

“I have Mycroft. Why would I need anyone else?”

“While it’s lovely that you and your brother are so close, you shouldn’t rely on him alone, Sherlock,” Mummy said. “You need other people in your life as well. You never know what will happen. What happens if Myc gets married and moves away? He might not always be here.”

He shrugged, and his eyes darted down to his plate, the conversation clearly over in his mind. Their parents began to discuss what needed to be done in time for Christmas day, and once they were fully ensconced in the conversation, Sherlock allowed his eyes to dart up to meet his older brother’s. Mycroft had felt a warmth spread through his chest at Sherlock’s declaration, and he gave him a reassuring smile. As much as his mother had a point, it was moot since he would never leave his brother. He had sworn to always be there for him and that was a promise he intended to keep. Sherlock smiled shyly as he read this in Mycroft’s expression, and lowered his head to hide the blush that coloured his cheeks.

Once dinner was over they lingered over tea in the library, their parents catching Mycroft up on all the family news, and Sherlock sprawled in a chair with a book. He spent little time reading, and most of it watching Mycroft carefully. After spending almost the entire day guarding his thoughts from his younger brother, Mycroft was exhausted. He excused himself shortly afterwards and went to bed.

It took a long time for him to fall asleep, despite being so tired. His mind whirred constantly, and worry gnawed at his gut. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to keep the truth from Sherlock, and truthfully, he wasn’t sure if he really wanted too. He was almost certain that his unconventional sibling wouldn’t judge him, but at the same time, he was the more unpredictable of the two. There was always a chance that he’d never be able to look at Mycroft in the eye again. He couldn’t lose Sherlock, he  _ couldn’t. _

Eventually he fell into a fitful sleep, but his worry chased him even there. He was haunted by dreams of long slender fingers reaching for him, a cruel laugh, and the suffocating weight of his shame. He tried to escape it but no matter how far he ran, it always caught up with him in the end. He felt cold hands grip his arms and he was held down and he fought to break free, to flee, but he couldn’t get away.

“My? Wake up, My, you’re dreaming.  _ Wake up _ !”

His eyes flew open and his eyes darted wildly about, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He was covered in sweat and his legs had tangled in the blankets. Sherlock was kneeling at his side, leaning over him, holding his arms and looking worried.

“Lockie?”

“I heard you from my room. You were screaming.” His face was pale in the moonlight filtering in through the window and his eyes were heavy with concern.

Mycroft rubbed at his face, wincing as pain arched through him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he mumbled. “Go back to bed.”

His brother remained where he was, a stubborn set to his chin. “You’re bleeding.”

He glanced at the sheets and saw they were covered in blood. “Oh.”

“I’ll get the first aid kit.” Sherlock disappeared for a minute and by the time he’d returned, Mycroft had gathered his wits back to himself.

“I can manage,” he said quietly.

The glare directed at him told him that he had no say in the matter. “Take off your shirt.”

He sighed, knowing there was no way he could keep his secret from his brother now. He slowly pulled his sleep shirt over his head, grimacing as it caught on the bandages covering his back and shoulders.

“What happened?” Sherlock asked.

No point in trying to evade the truth. “I was captured on a mission and tortured. I failed,” he confessed.

He felt a tug at his skin as one of the bandages was peeled gently off. “It looks like you’ve opened up three of the wounds. Knife?”

“Some of them,” he replied, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. 

“What else did they use?”

“Does it matter?”

“My, please.”

His eyes fell closed and he tried to concentrate on the touch of his brother’s hands rather than think of what had been done to him. “They started with a cat o’ nine tails, then moved on to the knife, and just before I escaped, they were using a hook of some kind.”

He felt Sherlock’s hand still, and his breath catch. A moment later he spoke again, his voice icy cold. “Did any of them survive?”

The only silver lining to the entire debacle. “No.”

“Good.” 

They lapsed into silence as Sherlock finished redressing the wounds. Once it was done, he changed the sheets, then helped Mycroft lay back down. Then he placed the first aid kit on the side table and turned off the light. Instead of leaving to go back to his own room, Sherlock pulled the door closed and then returned to the bed, climbing under the covers. They lay face to face, his sharp features close enough that even in the darkness, Mycroft could make them out. 

“Why didn't you tell me?” Sherlock asked, his breath ghosting over Mycroft’s cheeks in warm puffs.

He tried to shrug as much as he could. “I was ashamed.”

“Of what?”

“I failed, Lockie. I failed my mission and because of that, there were severe repercussions for our county. I can’t tell you what they were, but know that my superiors were not happy with me.”

“Who cares what those doddering old fools think? That doesn’t explain why you couldn’t tell me.”

He sighed. “I thought you’d think less of me. It always made me so happy to know that you looked up to me, were proud of me, and I couldn’t bear the thought of you knowing how badly I fucked up. I felt like I had let you down, that you’d be angry at me.”

Sherlock shuffled closer on the bed until his head was against Mycroft’s shoulder. He groped about until he located one of his brother’s hands and pulled it up until they were clasped between their chests. “The only thing I would have been angry about is if you didn’t make it back home. And I wouldn’t have been angry at  _ you _ . You don't have anything to be ashamed about, My.”

He tried to answer but the only sound that escaped his mouth was a sob. The relief that Sherlock knew, and wasn’t mad was absolute and now that he wasn’t drowning in guilt and shame, he realised just how close he’d come to not coming home. The pain at thinking that he could have never seen his baby brother again gripped his chest and made it hard to breathe. Tears streamed down his face and he tried to choke them back.

Cool fingers stroked his cheeks and trailed through his hair. “Shhhh, it’s okay, you’re home now.”

It wasn’t supposed to be this way - he was the oldest, it was his job to comfort his brother, not the other way round. But he couldn’t hold back as the sobs wracked his body, feeling safe in his brother’s arms, breathing his scent and knowing he wasn’t going anywhere. He inched closer, and wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist, knowing the hands that comforted him would never hurt him.

“Shhhh,” Sherlock whispered, kissing the tears from his cheeks and stroking his hair. “I’m never going anywhere, My. You’ll always have me, just like I know I’ll always have you. You don’t have to hide from me anymore.”

His breathing began to slow as his tears dried, and soon he was drifting off to sleep, his arms wrapped around his brother, and the shards of his mask laying shattered on the ground. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> First time I've written this pairing and it didn't quite go the way I thought it would. I told The Muse I wanted at least some snogging but apparently she thought otherwise. Oh wells, hope you enjoyed anyway!


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